Finding Home
by Ivo-goji
Summary: Based on the comics universe. Donald is just a boy, but he believes he's ready to make it on his own. He's through with depending on others. However, when Donald meets a young Mickey Mouse for the first time, he'll discover that it's better having someone be there for you- and what it feels like to be there for someone else.
1. Chapter 1

First fanfic about an American-owned setting. Yay?

Inspired by the chapter of The Life and Times of $crooge McDuck called "The Empire-Builder From Calisota" by Don Rosa and the Sunday comic strip continuity "The Case of the Vanishing Coats" by Floyd Gottfredson, two universes that were never intended to intersect. However, the work of both authors has had an enormous impact on how people view the character of Donald Duck- myself especially- so I couldn't resist creating a cross over when I felt the urge to write a story exploring Donald and Mickey's first encounter.

* * *

Most days of the year, Duckburg was considered a pleasant place, a sunny habor where the wind carried the scent of the Pacific over the Edwardian rooftops that dotted pretty coastal areas and inward to the city's industry-crowded heart. A place the likes of which both the image conscious elite and the common folk could be proud to dwell in.

Most days.

Today, a heavy curtain of rain clouds hovered statically over the towering office buildings, seemingly imparting an unhappy malaise into the architecture itself. The rows of smokestacks that adorned the city's factories appeared to the feed the storm with their ever rising columns of black smoke, and even the older structures took on an oppressive bent in the growing gloom. The still air did nothing to cure the humidity clinging to Duckburg's citizens as they went about their business in the rain-washed streets, much to their aggravation.

Today, one particularly aggravated individual was making his way home from the market with a heavy load of groceries in his arms, growling his dissatisfaction with every step. The fact that it was no longer raining and thus the brown paper bags he struggled to carry were in no danger of getting wet was a small comfort. He would have to walk a long ways before he was close enough to his destination that he could hail a taxi to cover the rest of the distance- he simply didn't have enough money for cab fare, not for that long a ride anyway. That meant slogging along through the muddy streets for what felt like an eternity, all the while risking getting caught in the downpour if it did start raining again. That was just his luck, being short on cash today.

For Donald Duck, _everyday_ of the year seemed to be shadowed by rain clouds, some more literal than others. The young duck grumbled in annoyance, shifting the bags in his arms so he could see over them and tell where he was going. His short stature just made the task more difficult.

Every day seemed to throw another challenge in his face, another reminder of just how tough a person's luck could really be. Donald was always stuck with all the bad luck. Right now he would probably be riding his grandmother's tractor home instead of walking if he hadn't broken the contraption last week in his first attempt at learning how to drive it. What's more, he might have had cab fare for the full trip if he didn't promise to pay for some of the expenses of fixing the tractor. Donald could never catch a break; that it just had to rain the day he went to town to get groceries was completely typical.

The clouds were not so thick as to make it too dark to see. Indeed, just above the horizon the overcast sky parted slightly to allow beams of sun light to glance down on the city. As Donald trudged through a deep puddle that made him leery of dropping his bags, a shadow fell over him, and he stopped walking to glare for a moment in the direction of it came from. It was an all too familiar sight.

Far away and high above most of the surrounding buildings, a single enormous structure crowned the top of tall Killmotor Hill. It was largely featureless, more so from were Donald stood as the sun glowed behind it. The concrete mass resembled nothing so much as a giant block from a child's toy chest, and as far as Donald cared that was all it was. A tall, golden dollar sign graced the front of the nameless structure, serving to remind the city of who had created it. For years this edifice had dominated Duckburg's skyline, casting it's broad shadow over one generation after another as the once tiny settlement grew beneath it. All who dwelled there knew of it, and of the one responsible for its construction. How could they not? For this building was the headquarters of the most powerful business man in the world, the person who made the city what it was now, Duckburg's first citizen...

"Uncle Scrooge!" spat Donald as he continued to glare at the hilltop fortress his estranged relative called home.

With a huff he jerked away from the sight of Killmotor Hill and trudged along towards the road, refusing to turn his head again until his uncle's residence was far behind. The last thing Donald needed today, as his ignominious financial situation was once again being hammered into his brain, was another reminder of how much better off the old tyrant was.

It was vastly unfair, Donald thought to himself.

'Me an' Grandma are out here struggling just to scrape by while he sits up in his castle actin' like we don't exist!'

While the Duck family homestead had once been the most prosperous farmland in the state, things had changed after the Depression. They'd had to sell off a lot of live stock they couldn't afford to take care of anymore, and in the years since had yet to recoup their losses with the animals they did have. Fresh milk and eggs didn't sell like it used to around here, too many people preferred the cheaper variety that stocked their markets and grocery stores. Coot family corn still sold well, as the genuine article was only to be found locally and none in Duckburg would pick another brand of corn over their home's traditional crop. Unfortunately a series of bad harvests had reduced this normally lucrative source of income to a trickle, placing his grandmother's farm in hard straits. It was really a terrible fall from the splendor of former days, brought on in part by the march of urban development. When more settlers began arriving in their county, Grandma Duck sold much of her land to accommodate them, only for a forest of concrete and steel to sprout up where corn once grew. What made it all so galling to Donald, however, was the fact that all of that land which once belonged to his grandmother now belonged to Scrooge.

Donald wondered at what gross miscalculation the fates could have made to turn over the city's destiny from the humble Duck family into the hands of his megalomaniacal uncle. In all the time he had lived on his grandma's farm, Donald couldn't recall a single instance of the stingy old tightwad sparing them financial assistance- or any acknowledgment at all- even during the worst of times, despite building his empire on the same soil Grandma Duck was generous enough to part with.

Dragging his feet through the mud, grocery bags in hand, it was understandable that Donald let out another growl when he caught sight of a sign loudly advertising McDUCK TIRES on the side of the street.

Wherever he went, no matter where he looked, his eyes were greeted by some obnoxious reminder of his uncle's success. All the while Donald himself was bogged down with miserable fortune and failure, forced to walk through the city that Scrooge built, unable to escape that perpetual rain cloud only he could see.

Envy of the tycoon's wealth, resentment for being ignored all these years, mounting distress for his own pitiful situation; these and other emotions swirled in Donald's heart as he contemplated the reality he woke up to every morning.

Most of all he felt anger. Burning, blood boiling anger.

For Donald that was one thing that was always close at hand.

His feat were practically coated in filth when he finally decided he was close enough to the farm to hail a cab. Setting the groceries down, he stepped out to the edge of the road, raising a hand to get the attention of an approaching driver.

"Yoohoo! Hay!" he called in his nasally voice "Tax! Over here- WAK!"

The vehicle that was not a cab sped past, splashing a wave of rain water over the pedestrian duck, soaking him to the bone.

Mercifully the bags were unharmed.


	2. Chapter 2

Donald sank into the material of his bed, feeling tired.

He rubbed his eyes gingerly as he adjusted the towel around him so he wasn't sitting on it, letting most of it drape over his lap. After putting away the things he had gotten in town he'd taken a nice long bath to clean away the mud and grime. Donald just sat there for a while as he tried to enjoy a moment's rest. Bathing hadn't calmed him down very much, he'd been in such a hurry to scrub away the dirt then dry off quickly that he didn't get a chance to relax.

Opening his eyes, he looked about the room he'd slept in for most of his childhood, from the bookshelf where photos of his family members were displayed to the small closet where his row of identical outfits could be found. He'd gotten into the habit of wearing a sailor suit at a young age when his parents would dress him and his twin sister up in matching outifts. They did this frequently for important occasions, or for any occasion at all really, in the interest of making them harder to tell apart he supposed. Donald had grown very attached to the look over the years. The young duck treasured his hat especially. While their clothes often looked similar, Della never wore a hat. It was one of the few things he possessed growing up that was exclusively his own.

Sharing some things sometimes wasn't hard. Sharing _everything, all the time,_ was.

As Donald reflected on that thought, his gaze turned to wooden chest beside his bed, the lid of which was hanging open. Inside was an old baseball bat and glove, a flute with sheet music, and a thick stack of magazines from a variety of publications. Smiling for what must have been the first time all day, he reached down and rifled through the stack to pull out the most recent issue of _Popular Mechanics_ he had on hand. Another thing that always set Donald apart from his sister and myriad cousins was his interest in machines. None of them shared his enthusiasm for tinkering with things and looking for ways to improve them.

He thumbed through the magazine, leisurely reading on the latest developments in technology around the world, finally starting to feel at ease. Donald wondered distantly if there was anything in here that could help him figure out how to repair his grandmother's tractor. It was doubtful, the model was so old and outdated. Nearly everything on this farm was outdated. As much as the urbanized nightmare of his uncle's Duckburg disgusted him, he still wished his grandma would embrace progress at least to a degree. A little bit of modern equipment here and there wouldn't hurt, right? The way things were now, most all the work on his family's farm was done by hand, be it milking cows or shucking corn or a number of other things. There were devices to simplify these tasks, but Grandma Duck never considered purchasing them. Many of the tools she did have were old fashioned and could stand to be upgraded. Of course Donald knew better than anyone that their money was tight. Getting new equipment was expensive. However, with all the work he had to do every single day that could be mitigated by adopting new technology, the youth couldn't help but wish they would invest in the idea.

It was only just as Donald was getting comfortable that a knock came at his bedroom door.

"Donald?" the voice of Grandma Duck called. "Are you decent?"

"No I'm not!" Donald responded irritably, already having an inkling of what she wanted.

"Well get dressed and head outside, Gus needs your help moving the hay into the loft. The two of you need to get it all up off the ground, or it'll get wet from the rain and start to mold."

"Why can't you do it?" Donald answered in protest. He really didn't want to go back outside and fool around with the hay after just taking a bath.

"I can't dear, I'm busy making supper right now!"

"Fine..." the young duck grumbled as he returned the magazine to his trunk and adjusted the towel again to keep it from falling as he stood up.

"Look, I know it's a bother but Gus won't get anything done out there on his own, he'll just fall asleep! Please go take care it," Grandma Duck said with sympathy. "then you can come back in and I'll heat up some of that apple pie that's been sittin' in the ice box, okay?"

This promise failed to make Donald feel any better at all as he was certain beyond any doubt that Gus had already eaten the desert in question while they weren't looking, as his cousin was wont to do. Sighing in defeat, Donald reached into his closet to yank out one of the many identical looking outfits. At least he never had to worry about getting stumped trying to decide what to wear.

Hurriedly throwing his clothes on, Donald once again felt his anger bubbling to the surface. It was so typical to get pulled away from his own pursuits just so some chore could get taken care of. He'd had that issue of _Popular Mechanics_ for a while and had yet to finish reading it- he could never sit down long enough around here before being made to get up to attend another task.

It was the same thing everyday: work, work, work, and then more work.

The monotony of farm life had been eroding Donald's complacence for some time. All the hard labor the duties around the farm demanded never seemed to amount to anything. When would it pay off? Would they suddenly have a boom in business one day and all their problems be over? Would all the toil he suffered through using outdated, ineffecient tools be worth it if they could finally afford to upgrade at some point?

Things did not seem that way.

To Donald, it seemed like tomorrow would be the same as usual, as would the next day, and the next. It seemed like their situation was never going to get better. It seemed like the work was never going to get easier.

As he left his room to go see to the hay, the duck wondered if there was any place where something exciting was happening.

* * *

With a thunderous noise the fence gave way to their rampaging automobile, allowing them to plow with reckless abandon into the pound as dogs erupted into terrified howls. The auto's wheels screeched violently to a halt as the duo realized they were in.

"Let's hurry!" the bigger of the two barked as he threw his bulk over the door to get out.

"Right!" a high voice replied as the smaller one leaped right out of the vehicle, breaking into a run.

Cages lined the inner side of the fence, each holding a frightened dog prisoner. They raced along as quickly as they could, peering through the bars of every cage, searching frantically for their comrade. The auto's headlights provided their only real illumination, as it was an over cast, starless night sky under which they carried out this caper in progress.

"Not 'ere!" the large dogface croaked as he passed another, non-upright walking canine.

"Nope!" came the sound of his companion looking in another cage.

"Not dis one either!"

"Uh... nope!"

The poor lighting only made identifying the correct cage more difficult as they darted from the one to another, all the while the wail of the surrounding dogs filled the air and swiftly gave them both headaches. They were running out of time too.

"We gotta get out o' here before Dan shows up!" the shorter one exclaimed in panic. "He'll come chargin' over to see what the ruckus is about in any second!"

"I know, I know! We don't want 'im seein' us either, the two o' you have enough bad blood b'tween yuh as it is!"

Indeed, there as no telling what the foul tempered dog catcher would do when he found them trespassing like this, trying to spring one of his inmates. It wasn't a situation any of them considered ideal, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

"Wait, I've found 'im!"

Finally they'd come to a cage whose occupant had a friendly, wagging tail and familiar bark.

"Pluto!" Mickey cried in relief as he dropped to his knees to see his beloved hound safe and eager to be set free.

"Alright then, stand back!" Mickey's friend warned, producing a crowbar which he then wedged into the edge of the cage door, pushing down hard to pry it open.

Before long the door swung loose and Pluto jumped happily into his owner's waiting arms, assaulting Mickey's face with appreciative licks. Wasting no time, Mickey scooped his pet up clean off the ground and into his arms, making a mad dash for the get away vehicle. He tossed Pluto into the back then scrambled over the door to get in the driver's seat himself.

"Come on Butch, we better hightail it! I think I hear someone coming!"

"Good deal, but I'm the one who's drivin'!" the larger boy, Butch, answered, swatting Mickey away from the wheel with his piqued cap before slamming into the seat.

The automobile roared out of the pound like a monster brought to life, smashing another hole in the surrounding fence, just because Butch felt like it. They tore through town at full speed, intent on putting as much distance between them and scene of the crime as they could in as short a time as possible. Unfortunately, it appeared that the worst they feared had already happened, as the squeel of police sirens reached Mickey's ears.

"_Good night_!" the mouse yelled as he looked behind them from the back seat. "Dan musta called the cops! There are at least five wagons chasin' us now!"

"Haw haw haaaw! Dis brings back memories!" Butch whooped in apparent glee. "Yuh said sumpin' like dis was bound to happen, didn't yuh? So, got a plan bud?"

"O' course I gotta plan!" Mickey replied, throwing a furtive glance over his shoulder. "I've always got a plan!"

Pulling out his pocket-watch, Mickey held it up to catch the light of their pursuer's headlamps, allowing to see the time despite the dark. A quarter past ten. They still had time.

They raced through the streets, twisting and turning within the labyrinth of brick buildings that seemed to glower down at them. Mickey barked directions at Butch, telling him what roads to take in an effort to shake the cops, who were hot on their tails. No matter how quickly they tried to evade however, the vehicles behind them edged ever closer. Mickey watched anxiously. This wouldn't work unless they increased the gap between themselves and the police cars. He looked around for something they could use to their advantage, to slow down the other group.

The lines of tightly packed shops and office buildings were starting to grow sparse as they moved from downtown to the residential area, rows of wooden houses and picket fences took their place. Butch was sticking to one side of the road in preparation of making a sharp turn, and Mickey with his head hanging over the door trying to see the cops came dangerously close to hitting the many mailboxes that silently stood guard outside each home.

'Mailboxes...'

"Butch, quick, gimme the crowbar!" the mouse said suddenly.

"Huh? Er, okay, 'ere it is." his companion replied, passing the item to Mickey.

Mickey jumped up, planting his feet on the headrests of the back and front seats, the crowbar gripped firmly in both hands. Keeping as steady as possible, he raised the crowbar to the side, then started swinging it down like a golf club, smacking mailboxes off their posts and sending them flying. The improvised missiles sailed through the air towards their pursuers, causing the vehicles to swerve violently in an effort to avoid getting pelted with the falling wood and tin projectiles. This had the desired effect of making them slow down, so Mickey decided to keep going, launching one mailbox after another.

"Gee," Mickey panted as he continued to unleash postal mayhem on the heat. "I *huff* don't want 'em to catch up *puff*, but I hope they don't *huff* wreck!"

He was prepared to keep catapulting mailboxes until he collapsed, but the beleaguered officers had grown tired of dodging them. With a crack of gunfire, one of the airborne mailboxes exploded into a shower of splinters, the sound causing Mickey to tumble back in surprise. He landed next to a whimpering Pluto who cowered beneath the backseat in fear. Now it was their turn to swerve around wildly as they tried to avoid getting shot at.

"I don't like th' look o' things, Mickey!" Butch announced as he did everything in his power to keep the automobile under control while evading the sporadic burst of bullets.

"Take the right turn up ahead!" Mickey ordered, still with his back to the floorboard. "Don't worry about the cops! They ain't gonna kills us over breaking into a dog pound!"

Butch did as directed and soon they were speeding down a desolate dirt road. There were no more houses or other buildings in sight, only the vague outline of trees bluring together beyond their vision. The starless sky seemed to descend down on them and wash the vacant countryside in darkness. Butch strained his eyes to see the road in front of him, which seemed to stretch on forever before being lost shadow. Something was coming into view however. A thin, spindly form standing to the side, topped by something x-shaped. In a moment he noticed a second one on the opposite side of the road, a little further away.

It wasn't until he heard the whistle that Butch recognized what it was.

'A train crossing!?'

"Uh, Mickey-?" he managed to stutter out.

The mouse had yet to get up from the floor, but he already knew what was coming.

"Butch, keep going."

"B-but there's a-"

"Don't slow down and don't stop!" Mickey yelled, before adding in a softer tone "Drive straight ahead. We'll make it."

"I-If yuh s-say so Mick..."

The sound of the whistle was getting louder, mixing with the blaring police sirens behind them to create a cacophonous noise. It was a earsplitting sound, a warning to not attempt what they were about to do. Butch steeled his nerves and kept driving. They'd come this far...

Quickly it ceased to be a matter of noise only. A light appeared and flooded the whole area with its glow, completely reversing the initial problem of darkness- now it was too _bright_ to see anything, and Butch struggled to keep the auto from going off the road. There was no more fear of being shot at, as the cops had no chance of aiming at what they could barely see and stopped firing. A far more pressing concern was becoming apparent as the ground started to shake. The source of the deep rumble was progressing towards them.

The train was coming, and if they didn't get on the other side of the tracks before it crossed them, they would either crash into it or have to face the cops.

They were getting closer.

The pursuing cars showed no sign of slowing down. The train chugged into Butch's line of sight. It was now or never.

With a thud the auto lurched over the tracks and back onto the road while the train thundered past them, missing the speeding trio by only a hair.

"Whooooohoohoohooooo!" Mickey cried with delight, finally standing up to survey their success. "The train cut 'em off! They won't catch up with us now!"

Butch heaved a sigh of relief. With the train and the cops out of the way now, his posture relaxed a little, slumping back into his seat and letting one hand drop from the steering wheel. With his free hand he fished around in his pants pocket to pull out a pipe with a piece of cork in it. He dislodged the cork with his teeth then spat it aside carelessly, placing the pipe in his mouth. Then he found a match and struck it against the brim of his cap, allowing him to ignite the tobacco in his pipe. He breathed in the anxiety reducing fumes with relish.

"Dat was just noiv rackin'." Butch exhaled with a cloud of smoke.

Mickey laughed in response, playfully ruffling Pluto's ears. They were both properly seated now since there was no more danger in standing up.

"I guess we cut it a little close," Mickey admitted. "but that was gonna happen anyway if we wanted to ditch the cops."

He looked out at the darkened farmland surrounding them, now seemingly calm and unthreatening, in contrast to how the same scenery felt moments before. The night was never _too_ inviting though, or so Mickey had found during his adventures. With the dark inevitably came some small amount of uneasiness. That was just instinct. Mickey could still find some comfort in their environment however, as the sound of the train faded into the distance and everything grew quiet.

"I knew we were gonna make it o' course" Mickey went on. "The night train to Cayuse station always passes this way at the same time everyday. I've been keepin' an eye on it for the past few weeks just to make sure."

"Few weeks?" Butch asked in confusion. "Pluto's only been locked up for a few _hours_, what on Earth were yuh up too?"

"Oh, just thinkin' up tricks I could use to get away in a car chase if I had too." Mickey replied with a shrug, as if this was completely normal. "If the timing had been off I would have suggested something else, I came up with some back up plans before we left."

"Yeah, but... why would you need to know this stuff?"

"Cuz I thought it might come in handy," Mickey answered evasively. "And it did, so there ya go!"

Butch decided not to pry into whatever it was that compelled Mickey to do such things, instead focusing on the road. It wouldn't take long for them to reach their destination. Before long the quaint farmhouse where they had to make their stop came into view. The old man who lived here hadn't noticed them 'borrowing' his automobile earlier and hopefully wouldn't notice when they put it back. They'd both agreed in advance not to use Mickey's little custom cruiser, as it was both too recognizable and illsuited for the fence busting part of their rescue mission. Besides, if they'd had to ditch the auto sooner for whatever reason, Mickey didn't want it to be _his_ ride that got abandoned.

Butch pulled into the worn tracks of the stranger's driveway, parking in the exact spot where they'd found the vehicle. The trio bailed, taking off for the nearby woods with all do speed. They dove under the limbs and bushes without worry of getting lost; they'd picked the old man's auto precisely because they knew they could navigate their way home from his property much easier than elsewhere. Butch wouldn't have any trouble, his old shack was pretty close by, so he knew these woods like the back of his hand. Mickey and Pluto were also in familiar territory, though their house was a bit farther away. Nothing the boy and his dog couldn't handle.

"Dis is where we split, 'kay?" Butch informed his companion, starting to jog off in another direction from the duo. "Give me a call if yuh ever need help out o' a jam agin', dis is somma the most fun I've ever had!"

"Hehehehe, good deal pal! See ya around!" Mickey replied with a wave before going his way with Pluto on his heels.

Mickey sighed as he moved along, remembering how this whole mess started, and thinking that he probably would have to take Butch up on that offer at some point.

Pluto's habit of pulling off his collar while wandering around town was really starting to get out of hand.


End file.
